Whispers in the Dark
by Yuhi Sakura
Summary: Sam and Dean have stumbled into the epic center of evil, buried deep in the heart of America, in a tiny town with a dark history and even darker intent.
1. Prologue: The Hill

_**Prologue: The Hill**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill or Supernatural! Also, the line about "the rattle of sleep" is taken from Arthur Golden's**_**Memoirs of a Geisha**_. _

_** Notes: I don't ship any Supernatural slash pairings. **_

Sam's fingers moved across the keyboard easily; how he had managed to get an internet signal out in the middle of nowhere was beyond Dean. Either way, it got them the information they needed.

"From what I can tell," He said finally, glancing over at his brother, "This place always had some issues. There are reports going back as far as the mid sixteen hundreds. Everything from unexplained disappearances up to entire massacres."

"The usual bat-shit crazies?" Dean asked, his eyes scanning the dark and desolate road ahead of them.

"Think crazier." Sam said, "We even have evidence of occult activity complete with human sacrifice. Hell, I mean, a ship even disappeared on the way across the _lake_. They never even found any debris."

"What's our timeline like?"

"According to dad's journal and Bobby's research, in 1989, there was a string of female burn victims between the ages of six and thirteen. The hospital records indicate there were no survivors. The last one was a girl named Alessa Gillespie, age seven. There was an investigation into her death because her teacher, a Ms. K. Gordon, thought she was being abused. It never went to court, though, because she disappeared."

"That's not suspicious at all." Dean remarked.

"Yeah. And get this, even though her observation journal, which detailed some of her concerns, was found, it was never admitted as evidence. It's like the entire thing was swept under the rug. And that's not even the end of it. I would be here for hours going over every murder, disappearance, and freak occurrence."

"Well, it certainly sounds like it's in our jurisdiction."

"Tell me about it." Sam sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Get some sleep, bitch." Dean smirked at him.

"Jerk." His brother replied instinctively even as he closed the laptop and slid it back into the case at his feet.

"Wanna crawl in the back?"

"Way ahead of you." Sam replied as he undid his seatbelt, pushed past Dean's shoulder, and slid into the backseat. He stretched out with a groan, turned his face toward the back of the seat to block out the meager light of the moon, and pulled a raggedy green blanket over his legs.

Dean listened to him over the purr of the engine, and in only a few minutes in breathing was even and deep with the rattle of sleep in it. He couldn't really fault him; the guy had been up since they had left Florida.

The case had been a small one-garden variety poltergeisting in an old hospital. It was hardly anything new to the hunters. It had been a quick in-out job. Rather refreshing considering that as of late their jobs had consisted of averting the Apocalypse, ganking Horsemen, and icing some seriously fucked up angels.

'_Not,' _He thought to himself just in case Cas was listening, '_That all angels were fucked up dicks.' _

"I appreciate the sentiment."

To his credit, Dean only hissed through his teeth at the sudden flutter of wings and rush of air. He didn't even curse.

Cas didn't bother apologizing, naturally. It was kind of part of the dynamic: he showed up, freaked the hunters the fuck out, gave some cryptic message, and then disappeared again.

"So, how are things in Heaven?" Dean asked quietly in an attempt to make small talk.

Cas was silent for a moment before replying, "Chaotic."

"Glad to see we're still managing our fucked up status quo." He shot an impish glance at the angel, smirking, "I really shouldn't curse in front of you. I'm a bad influence."

"I believed your logic on the matter to be somewhat more liberal."

"You're entirely too literal, Cas." Dean replied.

"My apologies."

The older Winchester resisted the urge to beat his hands against the steering wheel and remind the angel that he didn't need to take everything he said so…well, literally.

"So, what brings you to our corner of the world?" Dean asked, tracking the road in front of him.

"It is very…fractured in Heaven." He replied.

"Hey," Dean turned to him, pinning him with his green eyes, "You don't need an excuse to roll with us. Ever. You got that?"

Despite the obvious recklessness of the situation, he waited for the barely-there dip of Cas' chin. For a fraction of a second, there gazes locked, and when he was sure he saw understanding flash in those blue eyes, he turns his own back onto the road.

They sat in comfortable silence for several miles before the angel told him with only a shadow of reluctance that he had duties to attend to.

"Drop back in soon, 'kay?" Dean replied, tilting his head towards the angel.

"I will." Cas told him. The statement was punctuated with the splay of feathered wings and the splash of interrupted air.

The hunter nodded to himself as he peered into the dark road that stretched in front of them. It seemed like it had been hours since he had seen so much as a mile marker. He had hoped to eventually pull over and grab something to eat, maybe find a motel to sleep in, but he knew that, no matter how much it sucked, he was good to drive for a least a few more hours.

With his free hand, he reached over and grabbed the styrofoam cup in the holder. The coffee was cold; the standard kind of greasy spoon sludge that tasted faintly like burnt plastic even when it was fresh. But it was caffeine. It would hold him until he found a dive. Hopefully, he thought to himself as he forced a mouthful of it down, one with pie…

He sighed as he dropped the cup back into the holder and planted his hands firmly on the wheel. Nothing to do, he told himself, but to keep his eyes on the road, his foot on the accelerator and his mind on the task at hand. Not that there was much to it…

With miles of open, unmarked road ahead of him and hours without having so much as glimpsed another car, he let his mind wander a bit. He would have liked some music, but he didn't want to wake Sam. The guy had been up for almost two days straight, holed up in a library somewhere pulling files and records. So he went through their aliases, instead.

It had been a while since they'd used Wilson and Donavan. Not that he really thought it would matter. Small towns tended not to double check the names and numbers, and even when they did, nine times out of ten, Bobby intercepted 'em. It was a good system, he thought to himself.

He wasn't sure what it mattered this time around. The case seemed about as vanilla as it got when your life revolved around a shadowy war that was the theme of any number of horrifically inaccurate and fanciful movies, games, and shows. He was pretty sure it would be the standard "daisy chain of events" scenario. Old crap hanging around, getting nastier by the day, pulling more crap in. It wasn't the first time they'd seen it, probably wouldn't be the last. He was betting some angry spirits had decided to hang around and reap their vengeance where they could. The standard salt-and-bake kind of job. Hardest part about that was finding the damn bodies.

Despite himself, he was almost grateful for it, though. It reminded him of a simpler time. When they weren't constantly under the threat of angelic possession, for example. He smirked, chuckling to himself quietly. He could remember the days when their biggest problem was the annoyance of a rogue wendigo.

"No use dwelling in the past." He told himself low under his breath.

The edge of his peripherals flashed gray and he caught the old writing on the weathered sign as he thundered past it.

He almost laughed at _that_. How much more cliché could they get? Hell, it might have been worse than 'Lake Placid.' It was almost as bad as 'Sunnyville.' It was the kind of name that told any movie buff that shit was going down. Or that they had just stepped into a field of rainbow puppies and sugar kittens.

"What the hell kind of name," He wondered to himself, "is 'Silent Hill.'"

TBC


	2. Into the Mist

_**Chapter One: Into the Mist**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Silent Hill or the line about the Abyss, which is pulled from Friedrick Nietzsche. **_

_**A/N: I've decided that the best way to pursue this particular fanfiction would be the mix-and-match method of character selection. Silent Hill often leaves a lot of room for interpretation in what occurs to certain characters, especially between games. Any and all character mixing and matching will be explained at some point in some way. **_

Dean pulled the Impala off of the highway and swung a lazy arc into the hotel parking lot. He sat for a long moment with the light dimmed scanning the darkness. Something about the place gave him the willies. Then again….if you stared into the abyss long enough, the abyss stared back…

He shook his head as he killed the ignition. Reaching into the back, he gave his brother a gentle shake and handed him the keys. "I'll be back in a minute, Sammy."

The man in question grumbled a response, but opened his eyes and sat up.

Reasonably certain that no demon would get the jump on his brother, he exited the car, threw a jacket over his shoulders, and walked towards the dimly lit entrance. The door creaked when he opened it, but the proprietor didn't look up. He was eerily still and pale beneath the gloomy yellow light that oozed from the bulbs above him.

"Hey, umm…" He trailed off uncomfortably, "Excuse me. I would like to rent a room for the next three nights."

The man acknowledged him with an upward flicker of his eyes. He pointed to the sign with the rates on it, and Dean counted out exact change. As he slid the bills across the counter, the man pushed a key at him. He was half tempted to ask him where the nearest place to eat was but decided it was too much trouble.

He walked back out through the door, swapped keys with Sam, and told him he's be back with dinner. Sam nodded, shambled up the stairs, and disappeared into a room. He watched the light flicker on behind the tattered curtains and watched the door close before he gunned the engine and drove out of the parking lot.

It was almost midnight by the time he found anything; there wasn't even a fast food joint in the area. As it was, the dilapidated diner was almost beneath _his_ standards. He figured that had to be worth an award of some kind…But he was too hungry to start giving a shit.

He flipped on his signal, spun the wheel, and slid into the first available parking space. Locking the door, he pocketed his keys and walked in.

It looked somewhat more appealing past the door, he thought to himself. It had an old-timey kind of feel to it, with white and red tiles and red leather booths arranged in a rough semicircle around a white counter. Behind it, a woman was drying glassed with a white towel.

She looked about thirty, wearing a short-sleeved pale top, black skirt, and white apron, brownish blonde hair raked back into a ponytail. Some pieces were already falling down around her face and the back of her neck; her hair, combined with the stains on her apron and the gray of her eyes, gave her an appearance of exhaustion.

"Hey there, stranger." She smiled at him, "What can I get you?"

Dean smiled despite himself, "Let's get four burgers, some fries, and a couple of vanilla shakes. To go, if you don't mind."

"Coming right up." She smiled, her pen scribbling across a ticket. As she turned to clip it to the wheel and spin it around to the cook, she asked, "Any dessert?"

"How about some pie?"

"Lemon, apple, or cherry?"

"Let's get two apple and a cherry."

"Slices?"

"Pies."

Her eyebrow lilted up and she tilted her head just to the side as her eyes traveled down from his to his shoes and back up again.

"What can I say?" He smirked, "I'm hungry."

Her eyes traveled down from his to his shoes and back up again as she sized him up with all the knowing of a practiced mother trying to figure out how much her boys will eat that night. Her lips pulled up and she laughed to herself, "You _are_ a big guy."

Her hands worked at something underneath the counter and a moment later she pushed a plate towards him. Sweet, gooey cherry filling oozed from the sides of a golden crust.

"Have a slice on the house." She said as she retrieved a white and red bottle and proceeded to cover the top in whipped cream.

"That's awfully generous of you."

She smiled, "A side effect of being born in a rural town."

She slid open the glass cabinet beneath the counter and started boxing the pies. As she tied off the first one with a length of brown twine, she told him, "We don't get folks like you around here often."

"And what would you mean by that?" Dean responded.

She glanced over her shoulder flirtatiously, "Handsome. Strong."

"You forgot 'mysterious.'" He winked at her.

She laughed as she turned back, stacked the boxed pastries on top of each other, and packaged his burgers and fries into styrofoam boxes. She was just slipping his shakes into a cardboard holder as he finished his slice.

"That was some damn good pie." He told her.

"House specialty." She replied as she passed him his neatly packed food, "We also do breakfast, if you're gonna be in town that long."

"Count on seeing me." He said as he walked through the door with a wave.

* * *

><p>Sam peeked around the curtains and confirmed it was his brother before he opened the door.<p>

"Hey." He said, "What's for dinner?"

"Good old greasy American." Dean smiled, "Burgers, fries, shakes, and pie."

Sam rolled his eyes good naturedly. "And you tell Cas he's going to get fat."

Dean chuckled to himself as he passed a foam box to his brother. "I even got you one, Sammy."

"You…sharing pie? That might constitute an apocalypse all its own."

"Don't be a smartass."

"Aren't you going to call me a bitch now?" Sam asked.

"Not tonight." Dean replied as he kicked his feet up on the worn old table by the door.

"It really is the end of the world."

"Shut up and eat."

* * *

><p>Sam straightened his tie and pulled his jacket in to button it. Smoothing the lapels, he grabbed for a small black leather wallet on the bed stand and flipped it open. He couldn't remember having used the alias in the last six months and figured it was good enough.<p>

"I'll start down at the Sheriff's Office."

"I want to check out the cemetery." Dean replied as he knotted his silk tie, "Just in case we need to do some barbequing later."

* * *

><p>The office of the Sheriff was, unsurprisingly, dead as could be. There were three desks packed into the tiny room that, based on the dimensions, was probably an old school house they never really bothered to remodel. Only one of them, however, was occupied.<p>

She was a woman, mid-thirties or early forties, probably, with brown hair cropped into a practical chin-length bob. She wore the standard issue uniform: khaki top, olive drab pants and tie. A leather jacket was thrown carelessly over the back of her chair and her hat sat next to her outdated computer.

"How can I help you, young man?" She asked, swiveling in her chair to face him.

"I'm agent Brian Wallace, FBI." He replied as he flashed his badge.

"FBI? What the hell do the Feds want with us?"

"We've reopened the Walter Sullivan case," He told her simply, "I just wanted to ask you a few questions about it."

"By all means." She said, motioning for him to take a seat.

He nodded in thanks to her and flipped open a small note pad, "What can you tell me about the murders?"

"Nothing you probably haven't heard before." She replied, "The first ten were brutally murdered, had their hearts cut out and a series of numbers carved into them. Something about some cult numerology bullshit. They finally caught the bastard and then he sliced his own damn throat."

"And the next set?"

"Last I heard, that was ruled a copycat murder." She pinned him with her suddenly severe eyes, "Unless that's changed."

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the case at this time." Sam replied.

She didn't seem to take offense, "As far as I'm concerned, that's the end. I don't believe any of that "Round Two" bullshit."

"Can you tell me anything about Henry Townshend?" Sam asked.

"I don't know much. I heard something about a brush with 'Walter,' but if you ask me, he was probably just as fucked up from a different angle as the real deal."

"What makes you say that?"

"His report just screamed psychiatric head case." She told him as she opened a filing cabinet that sat behind her and rifled through the tabs. She fished a particular one out and slid it across the desk to him. "You can keep that one. I've got the original in storage."

"Thanks." Sam replied. "So, it sounds like you didn't trust this guy. Was he ever arrested?"

"As much as I wanted to, this case was a bit outside my jurisdiction. Ashfield PD made a call. I really can't even blame 'em for it. Those murders sent that poor town into a five year panic. I read something that said the psych clinic doubled its patient volume, and the suicide rate shot sky high. When it was all said and done, I think they were as exhausted as everyone else."

Sam nodded, more to himself than her, and stood up. Extending his hand, he thanked her for her time and the file, and walked out. He waited until he rounded the corner to flip his cellphone and key in a number. It rang once before a gruff voice on the other answered, "Yes?"

"Hey, Bobby," He began, "I just got some more information on the Sullivan case. Would you mind looking into some of it for me?"

"What can I do you for?" The older hunter asked.

"I'm wondering if there are any rituals that use ten human hearts or nineteen sacrifices or if there's any significance to the numbers carved into the victims."

"That's a tall order, Sam, but I'll see what I can pull up."

"Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it." He responded before he clicked off the line.

* * *

><p>Dean pulled a jacket over his shoulders and popped the collar over his ears. The fog had started to roll in just as he turned on to County Road 73 and just got thicker and thicker. At one point, he even considered pulling over and waiting it out. But it was already getting late and he didn't want to be out after dark in a potential demon activity zone without back-up.<p>

As it was, with his Winchester luck, he'd trip over a grave, break a leg and wind up zombie bait or something…

Sighing to himself, he took a cautious step forward and trained his gaze into the shifting gray. It didn't take him long to pin down the rows. Cemeteries were always arranged in neat, orderly lines. Once you got that pattern down, the only thing to surprise you was an angry spirit or mourning human.

That wasn't his main issue, though. Silent Hill might have been a tiny, middle-of-nowhere town with only a few thousand people and a handful of bloodlines, but that didn't make tracking down individual graves any easier. He had hoped going in that, like most isolated towns, families would be buried in sectioned off plots. No mixing the Smiths and the Joneses.

But, even if it proved to be that straightforward, it didn't mean that it'd be any easier to find an individual grave. A couple hundred years of settlement tended to build up some impressive death counts.

"God damn it…" He hissed as he glanced around and suddenly realized he had no idea which way was north anymore. Cursing under his breath, he pulled a flashlight from his jacket pocket and flipped the switch.

Nothing.

"Piece of shit…" He beat the flashlight against his palm. It flickered for a second, wavered, and flashed for a second before dying again. He hit it again, harder, and it sputtered again. He checked the bulb, flicked the switch, and jarred it one more time. The light blinked rapidly several times, but steadied a second later it evened out. Not that it mattered much, of course…the fog was still as thick as pea soup…

'_Just turn around,'_ He told himself, _'and get back to the car.' _

He pivoted hard on his heel with care, reached out into the milky white out, and felt along the rows of gravestones. The last one, however, tripped him up. He caught his ankle, fell forward, dropping the flashlight in a desperate attempt to catch himself, and face planted into the side of his car.

Muttering obscenities under his breath, he retrieved his key, got into the car, locked the door, and checked the damage; a bloody nose. It wouldn't feel great, but it was hardly even an injury. Satisfied that he didn't look like an assault victim, he twisted the key into the ignition, eased the accelerator down, and started to pull out.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, he thought he saw something…shadowy shift in the mist. But just as quickly as he thought he saw it, the fog had rolled in over it. He shook his head, convinced he needed either more sleep or more caffeine, and took off.

He somehow made it back to the hotel just as the sun was beginning to dip down low into the horizon. He figured he'd let Sam grab dinner and told him as much when he got into the room, adding for good measure, "I get first shower, bitch."

TBC


	3. In Shadowy Depth

_**Chapter Two: In Shadowy Depth**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Silent Hill!**_

_**A/N: Please note that there is a lot of confusion regarding Cybil Bennette and her ultimate fate in the games. Right now, the canon contradicts itself. So, I've decided to roll with it. **_

"Coming." Henry said simply in response to the knock at his door. He pushed his chair away from his desk after a cursory tidying of the papers there, and padded across the hardwood floor. He peered through the glass peephole and, realizing for the millionth time that Walter Sullivan was dead and had been dead for some time, opened the door.

"Henry Townshend?"

He eyed the man for a moment: despite the black suit and the red silk tie, there was a certain…gruffness to him. A sharp contrast to the neatness of his clothing and posture.

"That's me. How can I help you?"

The man reached into his jacket and retrieved a rectangular leather fold. He flipped it open to reveal a badge, "I'm agent Daniel Wilkes. FBI. I had a few questions about the Walter Sullivan murders."

Henry felt an icy chill run down his spine. He stepped back inside, hand on the doorknob, as he replied, "I'm sorry, but this really isn't a good time…"

"Perhaps I could come back in the morning?"

"I…I have an appointment."

"Son," Bobby said seriously, "I don't have time for games."

Henry swallowed hard, glancing around, before he pushed open the door and motioned for him to come.

"Take a seat." He said as he closed the door, bolting it.

"I just have a couple of questions." Bobby said as he pulled out a pen and pad.

"I thought…I had been cleared of suspicion." He said as he sat down.

"You have been."

"Then why are you here?" He asked.

There were two ways he could do this: he either needed to elaborate on a complex lie, or he needed to be honest. Years of hunting had given him one thing, at least, and that was intuition, he thought to himself. He knew a bleeding heart when he saw one.

"What if I said I believed your report?"

"I'd say you were either a liar or insane."

"So, are you lying? Or are you just crazy?" Bobby asked.

Henry shook his head, "I can't blame normal people for not believing it."

"I wouldn't exactly call myself normal." Bobby said, "We have a bit of an interest in your encounters with Walter Sullivan. Did he ever say why he wanted you or Eileen Galvin dead?"

"I don't really feel comfortable speaking about this."

"Let's talk off the record, then." Bobby said.

Henry eyed him for a moment, then nodded, "He mentioned something about twenty one sacraments. He said he wanted to wake his mother up. At first, I thought he was another mental patient. The area didn't have a great reputation, and I wasn't surprised. I didn't think he'd actually try anything, at first."

"These…sacraments. Did he say anything about them?" Bobby asked.

"Not to me." Henry replied, rising from his seat on the sofa and walking over to the desk, "But…this is going to sound strange."

"Try me."

"Joseph Schreiber did, or, at least, his ghost did."

Bobby glanced up at him, "That was never in your report."

"Can you blame me?" Henry responded.

"Can't say that I do."

The young man shook his head, "He said that he was trying to complete a ritual. He told me and Eileen that if we wanted to live, we needed to kill Walter Sullivan."

He looked up at Bobby, fear shimmering behind his otherwise emotionless mask, "Am I being charged with murder?"

"No."

"Are you here to cart me away? Do you think I'm dangerous?"

"I'm not here to do anything to you, son."

"Then why are you here at all?"

Bobby sighed, "Because I believe you."

"I don't believe myself," Henry whispered, as if to no one in particular, "Every day I wonder if I'm crazy…"

"Crazy people don't think they're crazy." Bobby responded lightly as he rose from his seat. He crossed the gap between them and laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, "You aren't crazy. You and that Galvin girl survived everything you think you did."

He withdrew his hand suddenly, thanked the young man, and slipped out through the door. He passed an attractive young woman on his way out, who met with Henry Townshend on the balcony of the apartment. He watched them embrace in his rearview mirror as he pulled away.

* * *

><p>The bathroom didn't prove to be much. If anything, Dean almost regretted being the first one in there. Sam might have been a bit of a bitch about showering, and had a frustrating habit of using up all the hot water, but the bathroom always looked better for his OCD-like ministrations.<p>

Sighing, he stripped down, stepped into the tub and tried hard not to look too closely at the fuzzy green patches littering the porcelain. He stayed in long enough to wash his hair and that was it. He didn't even bother shaving.

Wrapped in a pitifully thin towel, he walked into the central room, dug a pair of shorts and a t-shirt out of his bag, and changed as quickly as he could. He settled down on top of the comforter, pulled a pillow over his face-trying hard not to think too much about where it had been or how long it had been since it was last washed-and closed his eyes.

He wasn't sure how long past, but eventually he was woken up by the sound of the lock whining as the door was opened. He sat up, raked his fingers through his hair, and asked Sam what he had wrangled for dinner.

The younger hunter didn't answer as he turned and set the plastic bag down on the table by the door. His eyes were downcast and his hair was draped over them.

"What's wrong, Sammy?" He asked, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

"I'm going to shower." Sam replied with eerie calm as he shuffled into the bathroom.

Dean shrugged, wrote it off as another night of sleepless research, and went for the cardboard box of food. Unthinkingly, he opened it as he peered into the other bag for a fork. He turned back, and suddenly felt the entire room spin.

He jumped to his feet, reaching for his gun. Licking his lips once, he swallowed hard in a desperate bid to keep bile down.

Sitting in front of him, neatly arranged, was Castiel's severed head. Blue eyes stared back at him, mouth gaping in a silent scream.

"You should have just said 'Yes,' Dean."

He spun hard on his heel, training his gun on Sam. The young man was wearing a white suit, covered in blood, and smiling viciously. He took a step forward, Dean pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed high into the air.

"Would you like me to humor you?" Sam smirked despite the smoking hole in his forehead, sounding eerily like…Lucifer…"Tell you it stung?"

It was like his hands had a will of their own: he dropped the gun, backing away, groping blindly for the door handle.

"It's too late, Dean." Sam, or Lucifer, smiled, reaching up. Nails bit into Sam's throat, blood gushing down the front of the already destroyed suit, "He can feel it all, you know. He's screaming now, begging for it to stop." He ripped his hand away, tearing flesh with it, "All you have to do to stop it is say one little word. Just say 'Yes.'"

A hand came down hard on his shoulder, and he gasped as he bolted upright. He nearly flung his younger brother, who, thankfully, had the presence of mind to push the gun Dean habitually kept by his right hand away before he tried to wake him.

"Dude," Sam told him, "Take it easy."

Dean exhaled long and slow, nodding.

Sam glanced at him once, to check for infected wounds or signs of fever, and, seeing none, didn't say anything else. They both had nightmares, and through some kind of intuitive mutual avoidance of the subject agreed that silence was the best way to handle it.

"Are you hungry? We have Italian."

He nodded, more out of pride than hunger, as he accepted the box Sam passed him. He opened it, and had the sudden urge to puke. But he couldn't let Sam see him shaken up…he's probably start in on some lecture about sleep or feelings or some bullshit…so he gritted his teeth and forced it down.

Sam, to his credit, didn't push it, even when he saw Dean swallowing without chewing and chasing every bite with warm beer. He kept his eyes on his screen of his laptop, peering over the top occasionally when he saw Dean's eyes flicker in a different direction.

"So," Dean eventually asked, "What did you get out of the Sheriff?"

"Nothing, really." He replied, "She seemed pretty skeptical about the whole thing."

The older of the two shook his head; he never understood how people could be so blind to the truth when it was literally lurking behind them, claws stretched towards their backs, screaming into the night.

"I called Bobby and asked him to do some research for me."

"Well, I guess we'll hang tight for a few more days, then." Dean said.

"I think we should check across the lake, too." Sam pushed his laptop towards his brother, "They've had some pretty weird crap going on over there, too."

"Weird how?" He asked as he pulled the machine into his lap.

There were three tabs open on the screen, and all of them were electronic journals. The first one was by a girl named Elle, and in his cursory glancing of it, it looked…annoying. The kind of e-journal that angsty tween girls wrote about. But as he scrolled down to the entries Sam had highlighted, he realized something strange was happening across the lake.

"They're all like that. And it gets even stranger: Deputy Wheeler was never heard from again, Elle Holloway moved into the southwest, and Alex Shepherd is being held in a mental institution. "

"Which one?"

"Brookhaven."

"Isn't that on the edge of town?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded.

"I say we pay him a visit in the morning." Dean reached for his gun, checked the chamber, and reloaded it.

TBC


	4. Darkening

_**Chapter Three: Darkening**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill or Supernatural!**_

The man on the other side of the desk glared at them with bald-faced irritation. He didn't even try to mask it in his voice, either, "How can I help you?"

Dean flipped open the leather wallet, "I'm agent Hugh Donovan with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is my partner, agent Brian Wallace. It's our understanding you have a patient under your care by the name of Alex Shepherd. We'd like to speak to him."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible." The man replied, "You see…"

"Pardon my receptions, gentlemen," A voice broke in from the door way, "Of course we can arrange something."

"Thank you," Sam replied, extending his hand, "Agent Wallace," and motioning to Dean, "Agent Donovan."

"Dr. Slater," He replied, sliding his palm against the younger Winchester's, "A pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise." Dean smiled.

"Come with me, gentlemen." He said, spinning on his heel.

The fake formal sweetness all dropped away as soon as the man turned away; Dean's smile fell like a puppet with its strings cut.

There was something strange about the doctor…He was a tall man, with an odd build that made him look entirely too heavy around his midsection and entirely too skeletal everywhere else. His hair was a mix of silver and dark grey, but his face was startling young.

He shot Sam a look, tilting his chin almost imperceptibly, and followed after the strange man. He led them through a stained door and down a damp corridor, past several empty cells and into a small chamber on the far end of the tiny building.

In the back of a dirty, wet room, tied down to a chair with leather restraints, was a thin man. His ragged hair hung over his vacant eyes, and in the eerie gloom of the cell, he looked almost supernatural.

"Alex Shepherd?" Sam asked, opening his badge even when it was apparent that the man probably couldn't even recognize them as human.

"Dr. Slater, do you mind if we have a moment alone with him?" Dean asked.

"Not at all, gentlemen." The doctor smiled, his hand turning the doorknob, "I shall return in a few minutes."

Dean waited for the click of the door before he turned and said, "Alex Shepherd?"

There was no answer.

"I don't think we're going to get anything out of him…" Sam trailed off with a sigh.

"You two don't know what you're getting yourselves into." The voice was a kind of emaciated whisper…like it had been years since he had talked to anyone. "It's not too late for you."

"Too late?" Sam asked, trying to coax more out of him.

"Get away from this town while you still can."

"Why?" Dean asked, trying to meet his eyes.

"Cursed." He said simply, his eyes shining suddenly as he turned his head. He smiled brightly as he leaned to his left, "I missed you, Joshua."

"Joshua?" Dean asked, turning to Sam, keeping his eyes on Alex.

"He had a brother who drowned when they were young."

"Is he alright?" Alex said, talking apparently to thin air. He nodded vigorously to an imagined response, laughing.

"This is pointless." Dean said to himself as he prepared to turn around.

"Joshua always did love the garden, didn't he?"

"Whoa, Dean, hold up…" Sam said, glancing at him.

Alex rambled on, "Oh, Joshua, thank you…thank you for taking care of him. He loves gardening with you."

Sam swallowed hard and asked, "Joshua? Is that you?"

Dean turned around just as something fluttered from the shadowy black of the ceiling: a single grey feather shot with white.

His eyes met with Sam's and he opened his mouth to say something when the door behind him opened with a creak. The doctor walked in, smiling, with a syringe in his hands.

"You'll have to pardon him, agents. He's quite ill. He thinks that angels and demons speak to him."

He retrieved a key from his pocket, unlocked the cell and walked in. He didn't even bother wiping off the grime-caked crook of the man's elbow before sliding the needle in.

Alex, for one, didn't seem to notice, and, still smiling, told 'Joshua' it was time for him to go again.

Dean nodded to the man, "Thank you, Doctor."

"Not a problem, agents. It's always a pleasure to meet new people. One never knows where a seed will be planted." He smiled at them, shuffled past them, and a moment later they heard him order his receptionist to being dispensing meds for the day.

* * *

><p>"This place is too freakin' weird." Dean said to himself as he snapped the seatbelt across his lap.<p>

"Tell me about it," Sam replied as he opened his laptop and balanced it across his thighs. He clicked several things in quick succession before turning to Dean, "Bobby just sent me a message."

"What did he say?"

"He uncovered three separate cycles of disappearances in Shepherd's Glen over the course of a hundred and fifty years. All told, four children every fifty years disappeared right up until two thousand and three when Joshua drowned. That same year, three other children went missing. And, get this, in the last two centuries these kids all had the same family names: Holloway, Fitch, Bartlett…"

"And Shepherd." Dean guessed, "Fuck…if that doesn't sound like a family curse, I don't know what does."

"I don't think it is." Sam responded, "A family curse wouldn't explain anything on the other side of the lake."

"Doesn't have to. What if we're dealing with more than one ghost?"

"Then we had better call in some back up."

"Agreed." Dean said as he gunned the engine.

* * *

><p>As he stepped into the hotel room, Sam flipped open his cellphone and dialed a number. He put the phone to his ear and noted, with some annoyance, that the static that hung in the area from day one was worse.<p>

"H-lo…" Bobby's voice crackled on the other line.

"Hey, Bobby?"

"Sam…whe….are you?"

"Bobby, I can barely understand you." Sam said.

* * *

><p>"Damn it, boy, where the hell are you?" Bobby shouted into the phone.<p>

Sam's voice crackled back, the words shredded with interference. He felt panic start to rise up in his gut, a cold sweat breaking on the back of his neck.

"SAM!" He roared into the phone, "WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Sil…nt…L…"

"One more time!" He said, fighting to understand him.

* * *

><p>"Silent Hill!" Sam shouted back, frustrated and confused.<p>

The line suddenly went dead, and as he pulled the phone away from his ear, he saw the digital clock began to flicker. The numbers jumped from eight to one and back to the threes and fours. The background began to shift in an upward rippled, and the backlight of the buttons pulsed like a strobe light.

Throwing it down on the bed, he opened his laptop. He opened an instant messaging window, and was shocked to see the camera was nothing but distorted static. The volume key flickered orange several times, various lights and windows snapping open and closed.

Over his shoulder, Dean pulled the slide of his gun back. His own phone laid discarded on the floor, where it was flickering with static.

"This isn't good." Sam said as he ripped open a duffel bag and snatched up a box of salt.

Dean didn't reply as he pulled a utility knife from his back pocket and slashed his palm open. As Sam drew lines of salt across the sills of the windows and the edge of the door, he painted a demon trap on the floor.

"We don't have much in the way of fire power." Sam told him as he discarded the cardboard box on the floor. "Three pistols, Ruby's knife, and one rifle."

Dean peered out through the torn curtains and cursed viciously; he could even see onto the balcony structure just outside of their door. It had been less than three minutes since they had gotten into the room. It had been a clear day, overcast, but nothing even close to the grey-green soup that had blanketed everything.

"I need to get down to the car." He said, "You stay here."

"No way." Sam replied, "You're not going alone."

"One of us needs to hold down the fort." He replied, reaching for his keys.

Another hand slipped over his, "I'm afraid I must concur with Sam."

"Fuck, Cas!" Dean shouted, clearly startled.

"This is a dangerous situation." The angel responded, his blade shining in his hand.

"What's going on?"

The warrior of God looked at them oddly before he responded, "Are you two not aware that you've been missing for four days?"

"What?" Sam responded, shaking his head, "No. I spoke to Bobby yesterday."

"No, you spoke to him three days ago." The blue-eyed man told him.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean demanded.

"There isn't time to explain here." Cas said as he laid a hand on Sam's shoulder and the other on Dean's.

The older Winchester opened his mouth to protest just as the sound of wind streaming through feathers filled the air. The room spun for a dizzying fraction of a second, and then cleared.

"I…" Cas hesitated, "Do not understand…"

Blood suddenly trickled from his mouth and his knees faltered.

"Whoa!" Sam cried reflexively as he knotted his fist in the angel's jacket. Behind him, Dean grabbed his shoulders, and together they eased him to the ground.

"What the hell just happened?" Dean asked.

"It seems that I am unable to leave this place." He replied, "I do not know why."

"Then we'll do things the old-fashioned way." Dean said as he looped his arm under Castiel's. In his free hand, he held a loaded pistol.

Sam hauled their two bags up over his back, taking his place on the other side of the injured soldier and cocking his own gun.

"On three."

Sam nodded, taking a step forward in tandem.

"One, two," He threw his leg forward, splintering the doorjamb, "Three!"

They flooded onto the balcony, and down the stairs on impetus and adrenaline alone. It was a small miracle in and of itself that they didn't break an ankle on a missed step or thrown themselves over the low banister. Passing the angel off to his brother, Dean threw open the passenger's side door, ran around the back and slipped into the driver's seat.

"He's in!" Sam yelled behind him as Cas was unceremoniously tossed across the back seats, the door slamming beside him.

For almost a full second, Sam was lost in the pea-soup mixture; just enough time for Dean to panic. And then he suddenly appeared, threw himself into the seat, and pulled the door closed.

Without even the standard apology to his baby, Dean gunned the car into reverse, straightened out, shifted again, and floored the pedal. He tore out of the parking lot and onto the main street. Edging up on eighty miles an hour, it didn't take more than a few minutes to tear past the stained and faded sign that said simply, "Silent Hill."

"Well, that was one hell of a ride…" Dean finally commented as he eased of the pedal.

"We're going to have to go back in." Sam sighed unhappily, "I say we find a phone, call Bobby, and see if we can get some other hunters down there."

Dean nodded, ignoring the fact that, as with most of their plans, it was suicidal. But, hey, someone had to do it.

Sam looked up into the fog, and suddenly went pale. "Dean…"

He slammed on the brakes, feeling the blood drain out of his face and his fingertips.

Just behind a thin veil of dirty mist was an old sign, torn, battered, stained and weather-worn, that said simply 'Welcome to Silent Hill.'

TBC


End file.
